


Unexpected Mercies

by LCWells



Category: The Rat Patrol
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 10:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9545249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCWells/pseuds/LCWells
Summary: While this is a Rat Patrol story, it isn't. It was an experiment that I did about 20 years ago. I took my "Christmas Over Berlin Raid" story and rewrote it with the fan characters turned into original characters.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is posted mainly if any readers want to compare two versions of the same story.

Unexpected Mercies  
By L. C. Wells writing as MajorAlec

 

Author’s note: I took my story The Christmas over Berlin Raid and rewrote it as a non-Rat Patrol story. It was a fascinating experience to create something from scratch. You can’t rely on the crutch of the show’s relationships – you have create your own. Quite a test.

 

Bill Kirkson wished he was back in the racy uptown clubs of New York City or the belly-dancing bars of North Africa. If the war hadn't intervened, he might even have gotten to the Ritz in Paris, even if he'd have to wash dishes. The wanderlust in him had driven him through almost every state though he hadn't gone to the Far East. 

But in the Christmas of 1943, he wore the uniform of a Captain in the US Army Rangers, the recently-developed commando group, and had a weekend's leave from training. Haunting the USO clubs in the bombed-out ruins of London, or drinking himself into a stupor then staggering back to a cold bed, didn't appeal to him. He had done the equivalent to that the last two years. 

This Christmas was going to be different. His younger brother, Lieutenant Paul Kirkson, was stationed at a nearby airfield, and they had been invited to a special party at the home of one of Bill's friends, Captain John Masters, Royal Army. 

There were three irresistible lures to the invitation. One, Masters said they'd kept one of the antique warming pans to heat the sheets. Kirkson was sick of a cold bed. Masters' family was well-known for having a Christmas party each year, and the neighbors, largely women, had all planned to show up. Two, the beds would be warmed. Who knows there might be other people there to heat things up? Thirdly, it was a chance to see how the natives lived. Anglo-American relations were sometimes rocky and Kirkson knew that it was an honor to be invited into the other man's home. That was the line he used on his commander to get use of the jeep and some gasoline. 

Masters returned to limited active service after recovering from injuries caused when his tank had nicked a land mine in the North African desert. It wasn't the destruction of the tank that had caused him to land for several months in the hospital; it had been trapped for a day and a half inside the crumpled metal and dehydrating.  
Luckily, Kirkson's independent patrol had discovered the tank amid the rubble of several others. Scouting around for survivors, he had pulled the injured officer out of his tank along with another, who unfortunately died. After radioing for assistance, Kirkson had stayed long enough for reinforcements before heading out on his original mission. Masters hadn't known who it was who saved him until Kirkson visited him in the hospital. They'd struck up a friendship that lasted over a year. 

Masters promised an old-fashioned Christmas, as much as the war-torn nation could provide, and the Kirksons had promised to bring a Christmas ham that he'd gotten from the American mess. It sat, suitably hidden, in his duffel. Bill called in some special favors. Paul was in charge of getting some candy. 

Bill gunned the jeep's engine, heading for the airfield. The air was cold and crisp, and even if he was driving at what he thought was a slow speed, people scattered in his path. He proceeded sedately through it but as soon as he hit a larger road, he sped up. He didn't want to be late meeting Paul! 

 

For Major Max Zeitzler, Panzer leader, Christmas week started with a dressing down from his commander, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. Recently appointed to oversee the strengthening of the Atlantic defenses, Rommel had heard about Zeitzler's little escapade in Normandy earlier that month. Zeitzler had been sent to discern the state of defenses near Brest. He'd fallen afoul of the local administrative officer in the matter of a Frenchwoman. 

It had been a classic case of a reluctant woman vindictively pursued by a man with absolute power over her. Zeitzler heard about it from one of his men, and sought out the truth. The upshot was that the officer was now in combat in the Italian Alps, and Zeitzler wore Major's insignia, and had a privately-worded reprimand to stay out of the business of local administration.  
The woman had also given him a bottle of fine wine that he presented to Rommel, who accepted with a laugh and a jibe. Privately Zeitzler thought that most of the French wine he'd tasted was over-rated. It was better than the thin beer he gotten the last time he was in Munich, but not much. 

He'd been ordered to carry dispatches to Berlin which would take him there for Christmas, then use the next week's leave to visit his parents near Dusseldorf. He walked with a lighter step towards his rooms, garnering mostly cold glares from the locals and sharp salutes from other soldiers. Two weeks free of war. What a luxury! 

 

Kirkson took his identification from the military policemen, returned his salute, and drove onto the airbase. He'd visited it before. Between missions and training, he'd visited his brother who was flying a bomber in the Eighth Air Force. Their leave schedules didn't coincide very often but they enjoyed what time they had together. 

Trucks rumbled across the crowded base. Men were clustered around the bombers. From the bustle, another raid was being prepared. Raids were almost daily occurences, Daylight, night-time bombing, dusk as far as the bombers could reach. If the East End of London had become rubble during the Blitz, the cities of Germany would soon match them. 

Kirkson shivered. More raids, more losses. He knew the life-span of a pilot could be short. So could the life of most commandos. Sheer luck often paid off. The Kirkson brothers knew that every time they saw each other, it could be the last. 

Paul stood outside a Quonset hut, talking to a group of pilots as Bill drove up. He waved at Kirkson, made some comment to his friends, then trotted over, his flying jacket over his shoulder, and leather cap dangling from his hand. 

The two brothers resembled each other in their dark hair and broad shoulders, but Paul's skin was lighter and his eyes green, while Bill's tanned skin showed the effect of months in the sun of North Africa. His dark brown eyes came from their deceased mother's side of the family. 

Kirkson had an inkling of what he was going to say from his brother's expression.  
"Party's over, eh?" he said to forestall Paul's excuse. 

"Yeah," Paul acknowledged. "Sorry about this, Bill. Can't talk about it." 

"'Course not." 

"Just a milk run. I'll be back for Christmas dinner. Save me some of that ham, eh?" 

"I'll save you the bone to gnaw on!" Bill retorted. Paul sounded as confident as he usually did, but it was at odds with the look on the faces of the other men. Whatever was happening, it was big, and no one liked tempting fate. 

One of the huge gasoline trucks drove by, and Kirkson realized that he was in the way. Whatever was going on, Paul needed to concentrate on his mission, not his brother. 

"You know where Masters lives," Kirkson said finally, standing up. "Still got his number?" 

"Yeah. Gave it to the base commander too just in case." He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a bundle of candy. "Sorry, I couldn't get more but take these as my contribution. See you later?" 

"Yeah. Merry Christmas, Paul." 

Paul flashed him a cocky smile. "You too, big brother. Give my best to Masters. See you on Christmas." 

Masters' home looked like it was three hundred years old. The original stone walls had been recently stripped of ivy from the stains on the old stone, and a plume of smoke came from one of the chimneys. The front was hedged with bushes, and a massive pine tree stood to the right of the door. Kirkson drove up the curved driveway. The front lawn had suffered during the way. It looked brown with dried grass and fallen leaves. A token attempt to rake the leaves into a pile had been made clearing a path to the door. 

Kirkson was amused to see a woman directing two men in hanging a wreath over the arched doorway of the house. She was wrapped in a bulky brown leather coat and boots. She waved imperiously and Kirkson obediently parked his jeep on part of the browned greensward on the opposite side of the tree. He pulled his duffel out of the back. 

Walking around, he discovered his host had come outside probably hearing the engine. 

"Hello, Kirkson!" Masters called with a broad smile cracking his usually impassive face. He was a tall man with a lanky build. His weathered skin had lightened in the months away from the baking heat of North Africa, and there was a strand or two of gray in his thinning hair, but Kirkson was glad to see Masters walking without a limp. The broken leg was fully healed after all this time. 

"Captain," Kirkson acknowledged, and saluted. Masters returned it, then they grinned and slapped each other on the shoulder. 

"Glad you could make it." Masters looked behind him at the jeep. "Missing someone? Weren't you bringing your brother?" 

"'Fraid he had other business," Kirkson replied, with a slight shrug. "He said he'd try to make it by tomorrow night." 

"Well, we'll save him some of the ham," Masters said briskly, understanding what was unsaid. More discussion would be a breach of security even if no one was close by. "Let me introduce you to Zoe." 

The woman turned at the sound of her name. She was a decade older than Kirkson, putting her in her late-forties, and the bulk was mostly from a too-large winter coat. Around her neck was a pre-War scarf from the colors, and she wore scuffed brown boots. 

It was her eyes that caught Kirkson. A lighter brown than his, they were filled with slight amusement. She looked happy, a rare enough sight in England these days. Kirkson chalked it up to the holiday season. 

"I'm happy to meet you. John's mentioned you quite a bit," she said with a smile. "Thank you for saving his life." 

Kirkson felt a blush and felt embarrassed. "I didn't do much, ma'am. Just...uh..."  
She chuckled. "It's always hard when someone says, 'Thank you", isn't it.? There, that's over with now. I'm glad you managed to get away from your duties, Captain, and John said you have brought us a ham!" 

"Yes, ma'am!" Kirkson was glad that she'd moved away from the topic. He pulled out the bag of candies and held them out. "From my brother." 

"Ah, yes, John said he'd be coming. I suspect he was held up?" she inquired. Bill nodded. "Then we'll save something for him. The neighbors are looking forward to coming, Captain. Professor Ellis is threatening to bring some special wine over -- " 

"Oh, no!" Masters exclaimed in mock horror. "That man has been into his cellar again, hasn't he? Don't drink it, Bill. He used to do archeological digs on Crete and has some of the oldest wines in the world in his collection." 

"I refuse to drink anything that's twice as old as I am," Kirkson said dryly. "Especially after some of the things back in the desert." 

"Yes, that wine was--ah, bad," Masters said hastily, catching himself before using the profanity that usually described North African wines. "I'll insist he brings ones that have labels." 

Kirkson cocked his head and looked around. "Is that thunder?" There was a growing thunder from the north-west. It grew as they looked around. 

"There!" Masters said sharply, pointing. 

Bombers. Huge bombers, B-17s. Wave after wave after wave, they filled the sky, startling flocks of crows in the naked trees around the house. The black birds took flight, their color matching the shadows that crossed the landscape. The sound was an unrelenting roar. 

Kirkson's fingers gripped hard the straps of his duffel bag, but that was the only sign that he was worried. Normally he didn't know if his brother was flying or not. He noted sourly that it made a difference when he did. 

"There must be thousands," Zoe commented breaking into the silence.  
Masters shook his head. "A hundred Americans probably. Those are our boys." He waved to the west as a set of Lancaster bombers flew overhead, the RAF markings clearly obvious under the wings. 

"Where are they going?" Zoe asked curiously. "Got an idea, Captain?" 

Kirkson shook his head. "Nope." 

"God help those who fly tonight," Masters commented looking up. 

"And those who will die tonight," Zoe added dreamily. She added in a no-nonsense tone, "Not the kind of Christmas party I'd like to be at." 

"Speaking of the party, if we hurry, we can get the tree inside before we go to church," Masters said bringing their attention back to earth. "Come on." 

"I've put him in the front bedroom, John," Zoe called. "Right, gentlemen, back to the greenery." 

Kirkson followed Masters upstairs. He agreed with Zoe. God help them all. 

 

Paul Kirkson knew he shouldn't be on this raid. He was due a couple of days leave having flown consistantly for the last month, but the commander was firm; tonight, everyone flew. The bombers should be hitting their rendezvous over Berlin around two a.m. 

Under the wings, the quilted landscape of England were as clear as if the sun was shining. The light of the bright haloed moon dimmed the wash of stars. The light showed the silvery tracery of rivers, the rooftops of small towns and church spires, their bells silenced until the war was over, except by special dispensation. The white lace of surf brushed the beaches as they headed over the water. This was it. 

Paul felt cold fear wash through him, then fade into fatalism. If his time was up, then he'd do his best to make it count. Why should this night be different from others? It's Christmas night, that's why. He sent up a prayer for forgiveness for anything he might do tonight, and settled back into his seat to fly. His co-pilot was equally silent. 

The plane shook as it hit heavier winds, and looking ahead, he saw a white bank of clouds. Intelligence said that there was bad weather over the target. They were about to hit the outer edge of the storm. This was it. Ah, well. Hope Bill's having a good time! 

 

Major Max Zeitzler was shivering in the street. It wasn't as if he couldn't have been inside the house in front of him, drinking hot schnapps and devouring pasteries, but he'd had enough liquor to make him want his own bed, not that of his hostess. He saw desperation in the eyes of the women who came to the officers party; their men were lost or dead on one of Germany's fronts, and they wanted companionship at any price. It make him uncomfortable. 

He was thoroughly drunk the way he hadn't been for months. He knew he was going to be sick in the morning. Feeling the shape of a bottle in the pocket of his overcoat, he smiled. More schnapps, for later. 

The cold air and snow had sobered him enough that he could see the pinched faces of the hungry people who walked by avoiding his gaze. The German High Command might eat caviar and drink champagne from plundered France, but the Berliners subsided on rationed potatoes and fish, and zealously guarded their coal stores. It was going to be a cold night in the ruined city. For most of December, the city was coated in sooty snow, and now there was yet another blizzard to smother the ruins. He touched his bottle again. That would keep him warm when he reached the hotel. 

Privately, Zeitzler had always considered Berlin an ugly city but he didn't want to see it like this. He was billeted at the Hotel Aden where he'd benn wined and dined two years before as a hero of the Afrika Korps. It was a cold memory of what it had been. Now only half the rooms were usable and the bar had been destroyed by a bomb. 

The Allied bombing offensive had devastated the capital of the Reich. By day, the inhabitants battled the fires, but every night there were more raids. The destruction was random; a street would stand while the one next to it was rubble, and the one beyond already cleared and ready for rebuilding. 

It was almost midnight as he staggered by the buildings that bordered the Zoo. Christmas Eve, and his first at home in four years. What a joke! Maybe tomorrow he could go home and see his mother and father. If it hadn't been for Rommel's orders, he would be there now -- if they were still alive. He hadn't heard from them for months. 

"Alone, Herr Major?" a young woman purred from the shadows of a building. He paused, and she quickly crossed the wrecked street. In the light of an burning fire burning nearby, Zeitzler estimated her age at about twenty-one, and a true Nordic blond from the hair that showed under her fur hat. Had her husband sent that back from the Russian front? A lover maybe? Brother? She had a mole was on the right cheek accenting her high cheekbones. "I'm Elsa. Who are you?" 

"Max." 

She slid her arm through the crook of his. "And a Major as well, Max? Come with me, inside, where it's warm." Her coat was shabby from much use, and the fur collar had bare spots. Like the city, she was worse for wear. 

But she was warmer than walking alone, and maybe had a soft bed. The snow was beginning to fall around them lending magic to the scene. Why not take her up on her offer. "Fraulein..." He heard a siren, then another. Air raid sirens? 

To each side, searchlights reflected off the heavy clouds. The reflected light lit the city almost as well as the ruined street lamps would have before the war. "Not tonight! They wouldn't bomb us tonight! It's Christmas!" Her voice was thin with rage and despair. 

"We'd better take cover," Zeitzler suggested. "Do you know where the closest shelter is, Fraulein?" 

"This way, Herr Major." They walked briskly towards the grounds of the Zoo joining a thin stream of other people. The storm intensified, and they were both covered by powdery flakes by the time they reached the stone pillars that had once marked the entrance to the Zoo. Their iron gates had been sacrificed years ago to the war effort. ‘’

Most of the animals had died long ago, shot if they escaped or killed in the bombing. They walked past dark empty cages without iron doors. Chunks of concrete and stone littered the paths. The crowd was silently intent on getting underground as fast as possible, as sirens wailed around them and snow fell thicker and thicker. 

Elsa drew him into a niche just inside the circular staircase that led down to the shelter. The air smelled of stale perfume and cheap German cigarettes. He felt exposed to the crowd, and looked over his shoulder. Nobody was paying any attention to them. 

"Why here, Fraulein?" he asked in puzzlement. "Shouldn't we go further down? Wouldn't it be safe?" 

The melted snow had flattened the strands of loose hair around her face. She looked even younger than before. "If a bomb lands here, we might be able to escape. But we are protected from what might land outside. I have been here before, Herr Major. It's safe." 

"Have you been bombed many times?" he asked, studying her. The ground rocked under his feet and he heard the booming anti-aircraft guns, and the Crump! of the first of the bombs. One hundred pounders, probably, or three hundred pounders. He'd heard them many times. Too many times. Where is the Luftwaffe? For all Goering's fine words, we are all hiding like a rats in a hole. 

"My home was destroyed a month ago." Her lips quivered. "I was on the way there but only reached here before the raid started." 

"Ah." This was the last place where she had had a complete world. After that night, all she had was herself. This was her home now. Everything else was lost. Zeitzler understood. He'd been in many ruined cities from Spain to Berlin, and seen many women like Elsa. No place was safe from bombers. 

But despite the destruction and raids, he had a hard time hating the Allied pilots. They were soldiers just as Zeitzler was, and doing their jobs just as he had in North Africa, Norway, Italy and France. The United States and its allies would bomb whatever and wherever it took to bring Germany to its knees, and end this war. They had the firepower, they had the men to do what was necessary, and they had resolve. It was only a matter of time before they landed in Europe. The million-mark question was where? 

The woman shuddered and he put his arm around her. The anti-aircraft guns barked, over the increasingly loud engines of the bombers. How many airplanes were up there tonight? Hundreds? A thousand? There was a deafening crash, and Zeitzler felt his ears pop. The air pressure changed, as a cloud of dust blew in, making him cough. Outside, he smelled burning wood, and realized that one of the trees near the stone gates was burning. 

Or was it the city on fire? 

Elsa pulled on his coat holding him back as he leaned out fascinated. They look like raisins in the snow, he thought drunkenly. 

He heard the screams of the people caught out in the fiery inferno. One woman staggered by, screaming in agony, her hands and face covered with phosphorus. She disappeared out of sight probably to die in a snow bank. That might be more merciful than living. Why had she been out? Trying to get home before the bombing? Did she have a home? Did she have a name? 

"Max?" Elsa whispered, and he turned his head. "It's Christmas! What kind of people do this on Christmas?" 

Zeitzler didn't have an answer. Was it the Allies' way of pointing out that nothing was sacred any longer? What was holy now? Life? He felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him. He had sobered up too much in the last half-hour. He needed more champagne or whiskey or even Russian vodka. The bottle of schnapps in his pocket wouldn't drown out her question. Elsa shivered and he put his arm around her, hugging her closely. 

"In the last war, we sang carols across the trenches the first Christmas. The same carols, different languages. By the end, no one sang. They are doing this to break us, Elsa." 

Her eyes glowed with devotion. "We will never be destroyed, Herr Major! Heil Hitler!" 

He nodded hiding his reluctance. If Hitler was all she had left, was he going to argue the point? Nein. "Heil Hitler, Fraulein." 

She tugged on his collar and pulled him closer. "The raid will last for hours, Herr Major. It's warmer if we move back." 

"But then we can't see outside," he protested wondering what she meant. 

She opened her coat and he saw her tight dress. Only a couple of buttons held together. "I will keep you warm, Major." Crump! Dust and smoke filtered through the doorway. The bombs were getting closer. Elsa licked her lips. "Come with me." 

 

Kirkson had to hand it to Masters. He'd filled the house with a mix of troops from all the Allied armies, and no one had complained that they were neglected. Usually the women hung around the Americans but not tonight. There were even children, sons and daughters of the neighbors who were staying overnight, and provided the finest chaperones anyone could wish. What would happen after they went to sleep was up to the adults. 

A pine tree stood naked of ornaments at one end of the drawing room. The green needles contrasted with the black curtains that hung behind it to keep any of the light and gaiety from leaking outside. The regulations on blackout were very strict. Once the children were abed, the adults planned on opening the boxes brought down from the attic and putting the pre-War ornaments on the green branches. 

Masters presided over the punch bowl, sending some of the tipsy members away if they came back too often. Cookies made from hoarded sugar or wartime recipes were passed along, and Paul's sweets had been saved for attaching to the tree since they were rare treats. Lit candles were set on the mantel but the light in the room was still dim. 

"It's like something out of Dickens," Kirkson muttered. "A Christmas Carol. Wonder if they'll read it tonight? I think it's time for a smoke." 

He slipped outside into the lee of the house, next to the big tree, and carefully cupping his hands, lit his cigarette. He extinguished the lighter, and tucked it back into his pocket. 

"Need a breath of fresh air?" Zoe asked unexpectedly. She was standing a few feet from him, hidden in the darkness of the pine tree. Her coat blended into the shadows making her almost invisible. 

"Too many people about right now," he said companionably. "Can I join you?"  
"Surely. You have to be cold without your jacket, Captain!" 

"Bill." 

She smiled and held out her hand. "Bill. Zoe Frazier, Jack's cousin?" 

"Masters' cousin?" 

Zoe frowned in puzzlement, then smiled. "Oh, you call John by his last name! Yes, I'm his second cousin. I've been looking after the house when he was away." 

Kirkson wasn't sure of how to place the woman. Everyone had a job of some kind in wartime Britain, so what was hers? "You help Masters with the house?" 

"I'm the secretary of the local Food Board," she explained amused. "They found out I could accurately count boxes and take notes, so here I am." In the moonlight he could see some patches on the old coat. Like the rest of the British she was making do with what she had. "Until the war is over and Ian comes back." 

"Ian?" he broke in. "Who is Ian?" 

A smile broke over her worn face. "Ian Frazier, my husband. He went in the bag at Calais just after Dunkirk. He's been a prisoner of war ever since." 

Kirkson shivered. Tales were rampant about life in German POW camps. He didn't envy Zoe's husband. "How long has it been since you've seen him?" 

"Oh, three years, but I write every week. I believe I'm educating the censors since Ian and I are discussing Petra at the moment. Have you ever been there, Paul?" 

"Once, but it was a long time ago. Hell of a place," Kirkson agreed. "So, Ian knows about that history stuff?" 

"He worked for the British Museum before the war. Our honeymoon was spent in Rome looking at the early Christian ruins. Fascinating. The censors don't dare cut much of my letters. They took a pen to one of them when I quoted Socrates in Ancient Greek and Ian complained when he wrote back. They couldn't understand what I said, so the marked it out! I don't do that anymore, and they don't cut my prose." 

Kirkson laughed. "I can just see their faces!" 

She smiled broadly. "Yes, that would have been a treat. I was a little startled to see commentary in German on one letter from Ian. Apparently the Jerry who read it was a scholar himself and disagreed with my conclusions! I had to get John to translate for me. Paul, why are you really out here? The children making too much noise?" 

Kirkson looked up at the sky. The moon had set, and the stars were patterned glory against the black night. A few clouds were drifting in from the west. "Paul's up there tonight." He waved his cigarette and the ember streaked a pattern in the air. 

"Ah," she said understandingly. "Your brother. That was why you went to church tonight?" 

He shrugged. "It's Christmas Eve. I figured it couldn't hurt."  
"I know. John goes to Christmas service because it brings him closer to his sister who was killed in London during the Blitz. I'm sure that He's looking after him, Bill."  
Kirkson said reluctantly. "Paul's been flying for years now and he knows what he's doing. Usually I don't know about it 'til it's over." 

She slipped her arm around his waist unexpectedly and gave him a quick hug. "That makes all the difference, doesn't it? I'm sure he'll be safe. It's too cold out here to talk like this. Come inside, we can have some hot punch and decorate the tree." 

"There's no liquor in that stuff!" he protested. 

"There will be," she retorted. "The children have to be in bed before we get out the rum." 

Opening the door, they stepped through black curtains into the dark hallway. Masters was making sure that there was no chance of light leaking out if people went in and out the front door. He had hung a line of curtains over the door sealing it to the outside world. 

Kirkson heard a woman singing highly-popular "The First Nowell". A chill went down his spine. It was so beautiful and traditional for a world where historic customs were being destroyed with every bombshell. 

He heard rustling and knew she'd taken off the worn coat, hanging it beside the door. Her cold fingers touched his. "Let's go inside. There's nothing we can do out here. It's time to rejoin the party. There're many nice girls here tonight. Maybe one for you?" 

"You're waiting for Ian?" 

"Always." 

 

Looking down, Paul Kirkson saw a world aflame from massive out-of-control fires. The snow caked on his windshield, and the wings of his fighter were coated with ice. The airplane felt sluggish. It was one hell of a night to fly. 

The Luftwaffe was there though. The guns was clogged with ice and misfired. His wings rocked from anti-aircraft fire, and the heat rising from the city. Well, that would melt the ice but in time to take out the fighters? Only one way to find out... 

Something hit the tail of the plane and he felt the cables snap. His tail gunner screamed in pain. The bomber rocked back and forth, then rolled into a spiral. Damn! Damn! I knew this was gonna happen! "Everybody out!" 

He clawed at the fastenings until they came free. Smoke rolled into his face. He wasn't sure if he could get out alive. Even if he did, he'd land in the burning city. Paul had read his Dante, and Berlin resembled every ring of the Inferno at that moment.  
Jump or die. He breathed a prayer and headed for the door. The others were gone before him, leaving only the dead tail gunner to ride the bomber to its doom. I'll take my lumps below. 

The hot rising air caught in his parachute, sending him off-course. He had aimed as best as he could for an open park that he saw through the smoke, but he was being blown to the west to where the ruins of apartment buildings loomed like jagged blackened teeth against the fires. He manipulated the silk as best he could but couldn't help hitting one of the decorative iron light posts that lined the rubble-strewn main street. 

Pain shot up his knee. His left leg gave way as he hit rubble and he crumpled to the ground. The silk billowed behind him, in danger of being set on fire. Paul fumbled to get out of the harness. 

Around him, bombs were landing, rocking the ground and the buildings. He smelled sulfur and phosphorus from the incendiaries mixed with the smell of sewers, burning wood and the ominous odor of broken gas pipes.

Struggling, he unfastened the harness and tried to get to his feet, but his leg was useless. The pain told him that probably he had a broken kneecap. He crawled towards a pile of snowy rocks to get some cover. Where is everyone? 

 

Zeitzler leaned against the wall just inside the entrance and watched, entranced, as the raid continued. He'd left Elsa sated and snoring in the niche, but was drawn back to the destruction outside. For some reason, he felt invulnerable. Whatever was watching over him, wouldn't let him die so ignobly in Berlin. It was probably the schnapps talking but he believed it. 

The smoke cleared for a second and he saw a parachute descending from a fire-lit cloud. He wondered if the pilot was dead or alive. Should he go check? Whose pilot was that? Allied or German? 

Zeitzler glanced behind him but Elsa was still asleep, his hat crookedly tipped over her face. He lifted it off without disturbing her, put it on his head, then tightly fastened his coat. Hesitating for just a second, he pulled out a wad of Reichmarks and put them in her coat pocket. Maybe they'd buy her a new set of boots. Then he struck out across the empty paths that led out of the Zoo. 

 

Paul heard shuffling and twisted to look around him. He was mortally afraid but didn't let it show. 

A girl emerged from the ruins, her head wrapped in a scarf and wearing layers of rumpled clothing. She stared at the wounded American, then at the billowing silk that lay in the street, then back at him. 

He prayed she'd steal the silk, and leave him alone. 

Her expression went from blank to the look of a harpy with an eye for revenge. She reached down, picked up a rock and moved closer. 

"Fraulein!" someone called from the other direction, and Paul felt a vast sense of relief as an older man appeared. Unlike the girl, the man wore a hat and a winter coat that had been cut by a tailor sometime in the last decade. He looked like a normal businessman. 

She let out a torrent of abuse, waving at Paul who held up his hands to show he surrendered. 

A bomb rocked the street, and the girl screamed, clapping her hands to her head. She scored her face with the rock. Rocking back and forth, she looked at the blood on the stone, and her fingers. It trickled down her face into her eyes. 

With a sudden jerk, she turned and threw the rock as hard as she could at the wounded pilot. 

It missed. Paul cringed and tried to move back but agony went up his leg whenever he shifted position. 

With a feeling of horror, he felt a rock hit his hands. The man had joined in with the girl, and others were emerging from the smoke and snow to pelt him with rock-laced snowballs. In the madness of the raid, the Berliners had lost their civilized instincts and all they wanted was blood. Paul tried to curl up and prayed. 

 

Zeitzler felt the earth rock under his feet and knew he was being a fool. He should go back to the shelter and Elsa, and keep her company until the raid was over and he could go back to the hotel if it was still standing. Maybe he should take Elsa back with him? 

Something kept him going, and he knew it was the memory of the parachute. Somewhere out there, a pilot was grounded, and Zeitzler was going to find out if he was friend or foe. The remaining traces of alcohol bolstered his feeling of invulnerability as he headed over the falling snow to where he'd seen the parachute. 

The glow of the fires lit a surreal scene. He could swear that a crowd of civilians were having a snowball fight. 

How nice. Games among the bombing. 

With a sudden wash of soberness, he realized they weren't flinging the balls at each other, but all in one particular direction, and it was more like a small lynch mob than a game. Instinctively, he knew that he'd found the pilot, and he wasn't German. 

"Was is geschehen?" he yelled loudly and as officiously as he could. Unfastening his coat so they could see his uniform, and decorations, he strolled forward being careful not to slip on the snow. "What is this?" 

The crowd moved away from the curled figure of the man on the ground. Zeitzler's lips thinned angrily. 

The pilot was partially-buried in small snowballs, broken open to show pieces of rubble. His face was covered as best he could but still there was blood on the snow around him. The blood on his pants leg showed why he hadn't tried to run. Leg injury. He couldn't escape the mob. 

Zeitzler kneeled down beside the man and pulled his left hand away from his face. A ragged plume of breath came up. Good. He was still alive. The pilot opened his eyes but didn't move. He was probably half-frozen. 

The mob muttered angrily. "Let him die, Herr Major!" someone in the crowd yelled. "You see what he and the others have done to Berlin!" Zeitzler stood, and faced them. "He is a prisoner-of-war! He will be treated as such!" 

"He is a monster!" a girl screamed, her hand full of a rock. She waved it at the skies where the roar of engines threatened to drown out the sound of the fires. "He did this!" 

Zeitzler didn't move. "He is my prisoner, Fraulein!" 

"Let us have him!" Another man yelled, his hand full of a stone-and-ice snowball. 

"We will not become barbarians!" Zeitzler shouted. "Do not let yourself become that! It's Christmas!" 

That swayed them for a second until a bomb hit nearby, and the ground rocked beneath their feet. 

"Ja, it's Christmas and the schwein bombed us!" a woman howled. She threw a concrete-and-ice ball and it sailed an inch away from Zeitzler's head. The mob moved closer. 

He hesitated for a fraction then pulled out his Lugar. Facing the mob, he fired over their heads. "He is my prisoner! Mine! Go home!" 

The crowd swayed back and forth, then a bomber, the star on the bottom of the wings seen clearly in the light of the fires, smashed into a building roughly a mile away. The mob cheered. 

Another set of bombs made the ground shake. The crowd scattered as a huge cloud of smoke rolled over the rubble. 

Zeitzler turned back to the man on the ground who had half-raised himself on his hands, and was staring at the officer, looking afraid. He remembered the gun in his hand, then tucked it inside his overcoat. He said in German, "Let's get out of here." 

The man didn't try to resist as Zeitzler hoisted him up. It was obvious that he couldn't walk so Zeitzler carried him back into the Zoo. 

Falling bombs made him think twice about the staircase. Looking around, he saw an empty cage that still had a roof, even though the iron bars was gone. The floor was littered with brown leaves, and concrete shards. He dragged the pilot inside and let him rest against the concrete side. 

Sitting down to one side he asked, in English, "Who are you?" 

"Lieutenant Paul..." The rest was lost in the roar of a bomb as it exploded near their refuge. 

Zeitzler was thrown against the back of the cage. The world went black.  
Seconds later, he opened his eyes. It was cold. His coat was open, and Captain Paul was holding the Lugar trained on him. 

Zeitzler met the pilot's eyes unflinchingly. Would he shoot him or not? Was he going to die in some stinking cage in Berlin? 

Finally, Paul smiled, and reversed the gun, holding out the butt. "Merry Christmas," he said wryly. 

"Merry Christmas, Lieutenant," Zeitzler replied, and took the gun. He put it back in his holster. "How far did you plan to get with that broken leg?" 

"Figured I couldn't make it back across the Channel. Thanks for saving me from the mob." 

"It is Christmas morning," Zeitzler said dryly, pulling himself up against the wall. He tucked the gun back into his belt. "Your present is your life." 

Paul sniffed, and grinned. "Sounds like you've had a present too, Major." 

Even through the smoke and dust, Elsa's perfume permeated the air. Zeitzler laughed. "Ja. You should meet her." 

"Love to. Why'd you save me?" Paul asked seriously. "You could have let them finish me off." 

Zeitzler was insulted. It showed in his expression. "You are a soldier! What would you have done in my case?" 

"I hoped I'd have done the same thing." Paul replied honestly. "I was in London during the Blitz and I don't think anyone was taking kindly the pounding." 

"Then you are used to being under fire from women?" 

Paul laughed. "'Most of the time I don't drop into the soup to find one! I'd rather be out drinking now!" 

"I have been drinking. French champagne. Good champagne." 

"Coffee. Black." 

"Eating caviar - " 

"Toast with strawberry jam." 

"Surrounded by the most beautiful women in the world!" 

Paul shook his head. "Got me there....uh, -- " 

"Major Zeitzler. I am a Panzer commander." 

"Major." Paul saluted him, and Zeitzler returned it gravely. "Sounds like a helluva party!" 

"It was. With enough champagne, I see all women as goddesses. I don't ask what they think of me." Zeitzler settled back against the stone wall ignoring the flutter of snowflakes that were coming in despite the bombing. "You are providing the evening's final entertainment." 

Paul laughed. "Not what we had in mind. Entertainment." He winced as he tried to move his leg. 

"No, probably not. Our guns will destroy many of your planes and the Luftwaffe will finish you off on the way back to England," Zeitzler said peaceably. "You may be safer here in Berlin, Lieutenant." 

Paul sighed. "I'd rather be going home." 

"Family?" 

"Brother. We'd be in church right now if I was home." 

"The Red Cross will inform him as soon as they know you are a prisoner," Zeitzler said soothingly. "Don't worry about them. At least you're alive." 

Paul laughed. "Yeah. Get a chance to learn the language. What's "Merry Christmas" in German?" 

"Frohliche Weihnachten." Zeitzler handed him the bottle from his pocket. "Now for the next lesson. This is schnapps." 

Paul saluted him. "Merry Christmas." 

 

On Christmas morning, Kirkson was downstairs before the children awoke. He was surprised to see the front door was open, letting in the brisk, cold air. 

Masters came through with an armload of wood. "Have to build up the fire," he gasped, and staggered into the parlor where bright sunlight was flooding through the windows, their black curtains drawn back out of the way. It glittered off the golden ornaments and paper chains made from strips of newspaper and gum wrappers. In the daylight, the older decorations showed their age. 

Kirkson was just glad that it was still standing. He wasn't sure of how many of the adults were. The party had run late into the wee hours before everyone staggered off to bed. Despite several offers, he'd slept alone. The promised bed had been soft and warm under the blanket and his coat laid on top. The warming pan had been claimed by someone else, and not returned. 

Zoe was tying onto the tree the last of the Paul's sweets. "Oh, you're up! Marvelous. Thank you, John," she called gratefully to her cousin, who began to rebuild the fire. "Bill, can you get some more?" 

"Sure," Kirkson said agreeably and headed out the door, grabbing a jacket on the way. 

He was glad for its warmth as soon as he stepped outside. His ears were tingling as he picked up several logs and headed back inside. 

The sound of engines stopped him in his tracks. Looking towards the west, he saw the black dots. No air raid sirens. These were Allied airplanes coming back from the raid. His brother's raid. 

Ragged formations with missing men. They had been hit hard over their target. 

"Kirkson, we can call the base," Masters called coming out with his heavy coat over clothes. "He might be back by now." 

Kirkson looked at him and saw that Masters knew better than anyone what it was like to lose a sibling. His sister had died in an air raid. "Nah. Better wait for a while. Not everyone's home yet." 

"Good show," Masters agreed. "I'll bring in a couple of more logs. Go inside, it's warmer." Kirkson went back to the parlor where Zoe was blowing on the fire. She waved for him to put the logs beside the fireplace, and put up the fire screen. "Coffee in the kitchen, and some brekker. I made tea, John." 

"Thank you, Zoe!" They were interrupted by the flood of children who came clamoring down the stairs, then stopped dumbstruck at the sight of the tree. 

To them, the battered ornaments, paper chains and oranges stolen from the base supplies, were magic. Kirkson wished he could feel like that. Zoe sent them into the kitchen for gingerbread as the phone rang. 

Masters picked it up. He lost his smile, his gaze going to Kirkson.  
His jaw clenched though he didn't react any other way. He knew who was calling and what the news was. 

Instead of obeying Masters' gesture and picking up the phone, Kirkson went outside into the barren garden abandoning his coffee cup on the sideboard. He was numb and didn't feel the cold. 

The sky was clouding over and it smelled like snow. 

Zoe touched his sleeve, then handed him the refilled cup. "Masters took a message. He's only missing, Bill. Someone saw him bail out over Berlin so he might be alive." 

"What's the chance of that?" 

"Don't ask for trouble," she said compassionately. "I did that for three months with Ian. Nearly went mad wondering. Wait and see." 

He sighed. "Missing in action." 

"Have some faith," she urged. "Remember what day this is." 

"Yep." 

"Now come inside. The children are waiting for us before they can open their presents, and I have to finish making Christmas dinner. I'll let you cut the ham since your Army supplied it. Let's not disappoint the others." 

Kirkson looked at the sky, empty except for the thickening clouds. In the distance, he heard bells. They must have gotten special permission to ring from the government. "Merry Christmas, Zoe." 

"Yes. Happy Christmas, Bill." 

 

Max Zeitzler watched his prisoner being loaded on a truck. The soldiers weren't being gentle, but they weren't out to hurt the wounded American officer. He would be taken to a hospital where his knee would be treated, then he would go to a prisoner-of-war camp. That was the way things were supposed to be even in the middle of an uncivilized war. 

He looked around the square. Fires still burned on the horizon but people were bustling hither and fro as if they still had places to go. Soldiers diverted traffic so trucks could go through, and a mother walked by with toddler at her side, her soldier husband on crutches following behind. It was a charming family scene. 

Zeitzler wanted to wash the reek of Elsa's perfume off his body but he doubted there was any hot water in the city. Maybe the Aden was still standing. He set off for his hotel. 

He had just rounded a corner when he heard a familiar sound. Song? The family was standing in front of the bombed-out remains of a church singing a carol. Others in the street, and the noise rang above the explosions of leftover bombs, and the roar of trucks. Several crows flew out of the ruin disturbed by the noise but their harsh cawing was lost in the singing. 

The song ended and the crowd drifted away. I'll go back to France as soon as I can, he decided. After seeing my mother and father. 

He hoped that next year would be better but he had an ominous feeling that it wouldn't be. His one good deed was probably futile in the long run. Still, it made him feel better than he had for a long time. Major Max Zeitzler headed for the hotel, then home, then back to the war. 

 

~FINIS~


End file.
